


A whole raft of trouble

by LizzieBathory



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Mild Language, brief mention of self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:59:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11895333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieBathory/pseuds/LizzieBathory
Summary: Written for Strange Magic Week 2017: Modern FantasyBog is a humble book shop owner, Dawn a fashion student, Plum is a real estate agent, Marianne is a shut in and nothing is as it seems.





	1. Prologue

“I tell ya Plum,” the old troll said, sipping from a mug of tea, “it’s not like the old days.” The troll’s mug was pink with the image of a large eyed, fluffy kitten on the front. She gripped the handle with two of her fingers, the third and final digit lifted delicately. _Pinkies out._

Plum sat across from the troll and drank from her own mug, nodding in a conciliatory way. Privately she was very grateful it was not like the old days. She liked not being hunted or driven from their homes by scared interloping mortals. She enjoyed modern conveniences like indoor plumbing, food delivery and luxuriously woven fabrics. She smoothed one long fingered hand down her slim skirt.

“You know-“ Plum began, meaning to explain to the troll the beauty of calling for Thai food delivery, but she wasn’t able to complete her thought before she was interrupted.

“My son,” the troll began, “you know my son, well, I told him I need grandbabies and do you know what he told me?” Plum opened her mouth to ask but the troll hardly paused.

“He said ‘love isn’t for me’, so I said, of course it is! Love is for everyone. Besides, he could find a mortal girl and at least give me a litter of halflings! Do you know what he said then?” Plum waved her hand for the troll to continue and sipped her tea. Again, the troll didn’t pause for an answer but continued on, clearly on a roll.

“He told me he didn’t want to burden a mortal woman with himself and he was better off alone! Can you believe that?” The troll huffed indignantly, setting her mug down with a thump. Plum waited to see if she was done her rant before speaking. She took a moment to appreciate how the sun shining through the kitchen windows lit up dust motes in the air. The troll’s kitchen was homey and well worn, the large windows overlooking a well-tended garden.

Satisfied the troll was done with her rant, Plum spoke.

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to stop his whole life to make babies for you, I really don’t.” She said, her voice dry. The troll frowned at her, the corners of her wide, lipless mouth turned down in displeasure. Her small amber eyes were deeply set under a heavy brow and no nose to speak of, only two small black nostrils set in the middle of her round face. She wore a dress made of leaves and spider silk, a thick silk rope tied around her neck holding it up. She was small for a troll, obviously the runt of the litter. Broken bone stumps protruded from wiry copper hair, where the troll’s horns normally would grow.

Plum smiled sweetly.

“Perhaps instead of instructing him to produce a litter for you, you might think about throwing some eligible ladies in his path?” Plum brushed her free hand down her blazer.

Unlike the troll, she wore mortal made garments, a matching silk skirt suit in a most fetching shade of periwinkle. She had, in deference to the company, forgone the glamour she wore when interacting with mortals. Where outside the house she looked like a reasonably attractive mortal woman in her fifties, inside the kitchen she was wearing her true face. Plums skin glowed and shimmered with pale blue lights, her ears long a pointed.

“I just settled the most adorable family into the neighbourhood in fact,” Plum went on, “a widower with two attractive daughters, both of whom are eligible, if I’m not mistaken.”

She sipped delicately from her mug, letting the information sink in. Plum adored her job as a real-estate saleswoman. It was a delicious kind of irony, getting to settle mortals into their perfect homes when it was being hunted by mortals which sent Plum to the continent in the first place. She loved the thrill of finding the perfect home to match her clients. Perhaps there was some Brownie in her bloodline, she mused silently.

The troll looked thoughtful.

“You could be a good neighbour,” Plum allowed herself a small smile at her own joke, “and welcome them to the area.”

The troll thumped her fist on the kitchen table.

“You’re right!” She declared, “That boy is never going to find love unless I force him too.”

Although this hadn’t exactly been Plum’s point, she knew better than to argue with her friend.

“Well my dear, I must be going.” Plum said, as she rose from her chair. She set her empty mug in the sink and bent to kiss her friend’s cheek.

“Don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.” She told the troll, “I don’t want you to have to glamor yourself just to see me to the door.”

She wiggled her fingers in a wave and called back into the house as she was leaving.

“Good luck with Bog, Griselda!”


	2. Booking issues

Bog stretched his long arms over his head and sighed with satisfaction as his shoulders popped in relief. He had been sitting behind the front counter of his shop for several hours, hunched over his computer in his never-ending search for books. He glanced at the sky through the large front window. Judging by the light filtering through the dusty glass it was late afternoon. Stacks of sun-faded novels were piled together, displayed in the window to passers-by.

                He expected a visit from one of his regular clients, a bubbly blonde mortal with eclectic taste in books. She came at least twice a week, each time bringing him a list of books written in a flowing cursive. Over the last month she’d requested books ranging in subject from DIY construction to ancient Druidic rituals to pulp detective novels and several popular romances.

Though he normally paid no mind to mortals, he found himself looking forward to her visits. Dawn, as she’d first introduced herself, would happily share the gossip and goings on of her life in short energetic bursts. Though her visits weren’t usually longer than a quarter of an hour, she would manage to catch Bog up on the ongoing conflict between her sister and her father, her best friend’s antics and her classmate’s latest romances. Judging from what she said, Bog felt the field of fashion design was one of as many intrigues and backstabbing as the Unseelie court.

Bog appreciated the raw vitality Dawn brought into his normally quiet, sedate store and life. He liked the unexpected mix of her bubbling sweet personality and serious, intellectual reading interests. She was exactly the kind of mortal he knew his mother would desire for him, which was why it was all the more frustrating that he didn’t find himself attracted to her. She was conventionally beautiful, with large, bright blue eyes, pale blonde hair and a sweet smile but she lacked… Something. An essence which he couldn’t define.

In his mind, all this was immaterial. Even if Dawn possessed the undefinable quality he was looking for, Bog wasn’t meant for someone bright and beautiful. His ugliness was too deep, too sour to blight anyone else with it. He wasn’t left long with such dark thoughts as, true to habit, Dawn bobbed into view within moments.

“Hey Boggy!” She chirped her greeting, stepping into the store. Her gait was graceful, like a dancer. She wore a flowing blue dress which he was sure she’d designed herself. Once again he tried to feel something other than brotherly affection. Most frustrating, nothing was forthcoming.

“’Lo Dawn.” He smiled crookedly at her. “I’ve got yer books.” 

Dawn chattered at him, as he turned to the shelf behind to retrieve the stack of books he’d set aside for her. Bog frowned down at it, half listening to Dawn’s story of her sister’s ex-boyfriend’s attempt to win her back. There was a book missing. He turned back, opening the drawer where he kept standing orders. He winced, double checking the missing title. It was as he’d feared. This week’s order had included two rare titles among more contemporary requests. The first edition copy of a book of illustrated Scottish fairy tales was missing.

He was startled out of his inner thoughts by a gentle touch. Dawn had noticed his agitation and had laid a hand on his arm.

“What’s the matter?” Dawn looked up at him, her golden brows knitted with concern.

“I’m missing a book.” he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll find it,” Dawn said, trying to sound helpful, “I misplace things all the time. There was this one time-- “  Bog could feel his temper lick at his skin. He hated to disappoint in matters of business. It felt too much like breaking a promise.

“--it’s no’ missing like tha’.” He interrupted.  If only he hadn’t emailed Dawn that he’d had it, but he’d been excited to find a copy so quickly.

‘I’m no’ sure what could-ah…” It came to him. He’d been gone for less than a half hour the whole day.

“THANG!” He roared into the bookshelves. There was a loud thump, followed by quieter thumps before a short man emerged between stacks of books. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans with no knees. His army boots looked comically huge on his skinny legs and stout frame. His black, almond shaped eyes were red and puffy. From the way he sniffled and the smudge of dirt on his cheek, Bog guessed Thang had been dusting.

“What’s up boss?” He asked, swiping one hand under his nose.

“Did ye happen to sell a book while ah was on ma lunch?” Bog didn’t notice his brogue sharpening as he spoke, Dawn made note. She’d been wondering about the hint of accent, since Bog was more of a listening type, it was hard to catch.

“Oh yeah,” The young man said, “You had written the price on the inside cover, so when a guy asked about it, I sold it to him.” He sniffed loudly. “I left the receipt in the register.”

Bog felt his head begin to pound.

“Ye sold it for one thousand, eight hundred and sixty two dollars?” He almost felt hopeful. The figure was almost four times the book’s true value, perhaps there was a silver lining.

Thang laughed.

“No way! I sold it for eighteen dollars and sixty two cents. Do you not see the receipt? I left it—“

“—In the register, I know!” Bog snarled, “Get back to tha’ stacks! I’ll deal with you later.” He turned to face Dawn, A look of concern was written on her pretty face.

“I’m so sorry Dawn,” Bog began, “I’ll start on findin’ a new copy -- well, another copy – right away.” He didn’t mention how it may be a few weeks, maybe longer before he’d find another copy. The only reason he’d been able to find the book so fast was because he had been looking for one for himself. It had seemed like kismet when two copies had become available at the same time.

Already Bog could feel an itch under his skin, creeping around his neck and shoulders. It was a promise, a _geas_ , which he could not fulfill. He couldn’t sell Dawn his copy, not after it had become his. He would just have to find another copy somewhere. Somehow.

“It’s okay, “ Dawn said, “I’m sure Marianne will understand. Well, actually, I’m sure she’ll be kind of pissed, but just forget I said that. It’s not the end of the world, right?”

“Marianne?” Bog asked, confused. “Why would she care?” He paused.

“Is the book for her?” Dawn’s laugh tinkled around him.

“All the books are for her, silly!” Dawn gave Bog a playful push. “You didn’t think I read all that stuff and went to school for fashion, did you? I would never have any time for fun. My sister is kind of a shut-in, so I run errand for her.” Dawn glanced out the window, then back at Bog and smiled at him.

“Listen, don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll find another copy. That’s your thing, right?” She laughed again, gathering the proffered books and stuffing them in her large, rather full purse.

“Speaking of errands, I still have to run a few, I’ll see you later this week.” Bog could only nod at her as she flounced out. Before she was out the door he was already composing an email to several suppliers and auction houses. The itchy, uncomfortable feeling spread down his back slowly. The _geas_ would only grow stronger the longer his debt went unpaid.

Dawn’s words echoed though his mind as he tried to focus on his task. _All the books_. He’d been wrong about Dawn. There were no hidden undercurrents, no secret interests. She was exactly what she seemed to be, a lovely, engaging mortal. Another thought strayed across his concentration. _A shut-in_? Did her sister never leave her room, or her house? Bog didn’t recall Dawn mentioning anything like that before, but her stories had usually focused on her friends’ trials and romances.

Bog shook his head, as if it would help shake his thoughts apart. He needed to find that book!


	3. Dawning worry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a very brief mention of self harm the beginning of this chapter.  
> This chapter isn't what I expected when I started writing it and I'm pleased with how it's turned out. I hope you enjoy it!

Dawn hummed softly to herself as she walked the path home. It was a different path than the one she’d taken that morning, since she was still learning the neighbourhood. The first four months she lived in the town of Normal, Dawn, her sister and her father all shared a two bedroom apartment on the other side of town. Just remembering the boxy, harsh walls gave Dawn a shudder. The only good part of living in cramped quarters was she got to share a room with Marianne.

It was impossible for someone to hide in their room if she shared it with her sister, Dawn mused. Since they’d moved into the house, Marianne could disappear into her room for hours at a time. Dawn didn’t take it personally, but she did miss her sister’s company. It also concerned her what her sister may be doing behind closed doors.

Dawn wasn’t usually a worrier, but there were the flashing lights and weird smells coming from under Marianne’s door. Last week she’d been up late finishing an assignment and went to get a glass of water when Marianne emerged from her room. Her sister had a t-shirt wadded up and pressed to her arm.

“I cut myself with a chisel,” Marianne said, “It’s fine. I’ll put some butterfly bandages on it.” She even smiled at the weak joke. She was pale and sweating. Dawn ended up helping Marianne bandage a  cut which started at the base of her left thumb and stretched across the back of her arm, curving to her elbow. Marianne sat on the edge of the tub in their shared bathroom as Dawn fussed with ointment and bandages at the counter. 

“This looks like a knife cut,” Dawn said carefully, not sure if she should even ask, as she taped the edges of the wound together, “are you-I mean did you…” Marianne looked startled.

“I didn’t do this intentionally.” She said. Dawn felt relief pour through her. She’d only heard about such things through her school and wasn’t really sure how to deal if Marianne had been injuring herself. She knew her sister would never tell her a lie.

“I told you, Dawn,” She continued, “I cut myself with a chisel. They’re really sharp and I should have been more careful.” Dawn nodded sagely as she finished wrapping a gauze bandage around Marianne’s patched up arm.

“You do that.” She said and kissed Marianne on the top of the head. “You’re all set. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Marianne said and hugged her sister before retreating back into her room. Since that night there had been no lights or noises or smells or smoke coming from under Marianne’s door. Dawn had been pleasantly surprised more than once that Marianne had gotten up early and cooked breakfast for Dawn and their father. She’d even seen her sister reading in the garden. It seemed Marianne was making an effort to act normal.

Dawn considered this for a moment as she came into sight of her new home. The three bedroom bungalow was small but the high ceilings, large windows and open concept helped it feel much larger than it was. Dawn and Marianne had been working on the gardens, since the front lawn was a dry square of grass, they’d focused their efforts on the larger back yard. Though Marianne had been coming out to help her in the garden less and less lately.

Dawn shook her head, wanting to rid herself of worries and dark thoughts before entering her house. She took a deep breath of sweet air. The neighbourhood smelled of the first days of summer, cut grass and the last of the apple blossoms.

She made her way along the stone path Marianne had laid the previous weekend during one of her gardening rampages, bypassing the front door to walk into her house through the garden. The flowers seemed to nod towards her, their leaves reaching towards her. Dawn brushed the soft sage and lavender on her way by, releasing the herbal scents. The lavender soothed her worries for the moment.

Dawn didn’t see Marianne in the back yard as she passed through. In a way she hadn’t expected to, she rarely saw Marianne at twilight. She slid the glass door to the kitchen open, stepping from the back yard into the house and locking the door behind her.

“Father?” She called, setting her parcels on the round dining table and her bags on the floor. “Marianne?” Dawn listened for any response but the house was quiet. It was not the quiet of a completely uninhabited house, but as if the inhabitants were occupied. Dawn transferred food into the fridge, filled the fruit bowl on the counter with oranges and put dry goods into cupboards over the counter before searching out her father.

She checked his bedroom first. Cracking the door open, a strip of light illuminated the lumpy shape of her father under his covers.

“Father?” She called softly, not wanting to wake him if he was truly asleep. “Are you hungry? Do you want tea?” Dawn received no response. Either he was asleep or pretending to be asleep. Whichever the case may be, Dawn didn’t want to disturb him, so she closed the door softly and knocked on Marianne’s door. Marianne wasn’t home, or not in her room, Dawn judged.

Dawn brewed herself a cup of tea before padding to the room which occupied the front corner of the bungalow. Her room. Where Marianne’s room had windows facing the garden and the next-door-neighbour, Dagda, their father, had the room closest to the garden. Dawn wasn’t sure if it helped, but she was sure it wouldn’t hurt to keep her Dad near the flowers. Dawn’s windows faced the front yard and street, so she had purchased a set of opaque white curtains as well as soft, gauzy ones.

She’d painted her room a soft yellow when they’d moved in. Bits of paper were pinned all over her walls, drawings and letters and images torn from magazines. Dawn had made a desk from milk crates and wood scraps, where she kept her sketch books and her computer. She sat at her desk and wiggled the mouse back and forth.

“Wake up!” She whispered to her computer, giving it a gentle pat on the monitor. The screen sparked to life, asking her for the password. Dawn typed it in and immediately pulled up her instant messaging program. She skimmed over the list of names until she saw Sunny. The green dot beside his profile picture indicated online status. Dawn opened a chat with him.

SunshineGal: You’ll never guess what happened today!

ElvisLives92: You saw an alien?

SunshineGal: No, silly, guess again!

ElvisLives92: Your sister discovered a new star?

     SunshineGal: What is with you and space today? You want me to tell you?

     ElvisLives92: Please do

     SunshineGal: The bookseller guy I go to for Marianne accidentally sold her book!

     ElvisLives92: How do you accidentally sell a book?

     ElvisLives92: also Marianne is going to be pissed

     SunshineGal: It was actually his employee

     SunshineGal: I know! I don’t really want to tell her

     ElvisLives92: Why not?

     SunshineGal: Well this bookseller guy is kind of cute in an awkward way. I don’t want her scaring him off.

     ElvisLives92: Cute huh? Cuter than Benjamin?

     SunshineGal: No way! Ben is so hot but he chews with his mouth open. I really like Darren. Bog is more mature and kind of dark

     SunshineGal: Not my type

     ElvisLives92: HIS NAME IS BOG

     ElvisLives92: HIS NAME IS SERIOUSLY BOG

     ElvisLives92: SERIOUSLY?

Dawn laughed out loud. Her finger flew across the keyboard as she tapped out her response.

     SunshineGal: YES SERIOUSLY

     SunshineGal: SERIOUSLY

     SunshineGal: YOUR NAME IS SUNNY

     SunshineGal: MY NAME IS DAWN

     SunshineGal: WE ARE ALL NOUNS

     ElvisLives92: Actually Sunny is an adjective

Dawn laughed again.

     SunshineGal: :’P

     ElvisLives2: :’D

 _Sunny is the absolute best_ , she thought.


	4. Coffee and Trouble Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sisters have breakfast and things do not go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Marianne appears!

Marianne tiptoed through the garden and tried to silently clamber into her bedroom through the open window. The task was made that much more difficult by the fresh scrapes on both her palms. Her still healing left arm throbbed with protest as she pushed herself up, biting back a curse when she smacked her scraped knees on the windowsill. She dropped into her room, pausing to listen. The house was quiet. Dawn and her father were likely still in bed.

Marianne grimaced as bruises all over her body twinged, making themselves known. She toed off her shoes and padded barefoot into the hallway. The doors to Dawn and her fathers’ room were closed. Marianne spent a few minutes cleaning up in the bathroom. She picked gravel out of her skin, disinfecting the wounds and wrapping up with cotton gauze. She returned to her room to change out of her soiled clothes.

Marianne exchanged her bloodstained jeans for baggy sweatpants, trading her filthy t-shirt for a long-sleeved athletic shirt. She looped her thumbs in the thumb holes, pleased she'd hidden the angry red flesh on her palms. Dawn would have questions if she saw her injuries and Marianne wasn’t sure if she could provide answers. She shoved her clothes deep into the pile of dirty laundry which grew out of her hamper and padded into the kitchen.

It was still too early to start breakfast, the first weak rays of morning light barely illuminating the laminate countertops. Marianne grabbed a few oranges from the bowl on the counter and poured herself a glass of tap water. She set the glass down on the kitchen table, her foot bumping a cloth bag on the floor. Glancing inside the bag, Marianne made a pleased noise. Dawn had picked up her latest order from the book seller. In the bustle of her busy night, she’d forgotten about it. She drew each book from the bag one by one, inspecting their spines and drawing in their scent.

The books she ordered fell into three categories: for the pleasure, for the practical and for research. Marianne paused, turning the paperback she held over in her hands as she thought.

Her latest project had been borne of her father’s… illness. She’d spent the night hunting through the black market for needed items and ingredients. It was there two thugs had jumped her. She’d scraped her hands and knees falling to the pavement and gathered bruises by beating the very-surprised-tar out of them.

The two brutes hadn’t expected a slender thing like her to be so vicious. When she had drawn her knife, the long blade glittering silver in the streetlamp’s light, they’d turned tail and run. As they ran, she’d heard one remark to the other they “hadn’t been paid enough for this shit”. Marianne sighed, setting the book down and began peeling an orange. The smell of citrus immediately filled her nose, calming her excited thoughts.

Who was paying someone to jump her? Who knew she’d be shopping the black market last night? Who was her enemy? Marianne turned ideas over in her mind as she methodically peeled, segmented and consumed the fruit between sips of water. When she finished she gathered the orange peels into her empty glass and turned back to the books.

Marianne reached into the bag and frowned. It was empty. She counted the books in front of her. She’d had six books on her order and there were only five here. Her frown deepened into a scowl when she realized which book was missing.

She’d had the order in for that book of fairy tales three weeks before it was confirmed. Heat simmered in her veins. She’d arranged, with Dawn’s help, to prepay for her book orders after they’d confirmation, so Dawn could simply pick them up. The missing book was worth twice as much as the combined cost of the rest of her order. Where was it? Marianne checked around the kitchen table in case it had fallen out of the bag.

The angry simmer in her blood went up a few degrees as she searched the kitchen and into the living room. She was sure Dawn would have kept the books together. It wasn’t with the order. She would have to wait until her sister got up and ask her about it. With this in mind, Marianne cleaned up her mess and began the preparations for breakfast.

*~*~*

Dawn awoke to bright sunshine streaming through her windows. She’d forgotten to draw the heavier black-out curtains last night, wanting to let in the cool night air. She yawned, stretching her arms towards the ceiling. She’d been having a fabulous dream, dancing with handsome partner after handsome partner at a glittering ball. She’d gone to bed sometime after midnight, having spent much of the night chatting with Sunny online as she finished her design homework.

She popped out of bed, pulled on her slippers and danced down the hallway into the kitchen. Marianne stood at the stove, frying potatoes in their ceramic Dutch oven. A plate on the counter was piled high with crispy bacon, a carton of eggs and a bowl of shredded cheese beside it.

“You’re on toast duty.” Marianne said by way of greeting. Dawn gave her sister a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. She retrieved a loaf of crusty brown bread from the breadbox on the counter. She grabbed a cutting board and bread knife and set them on the counter next to the toaster. Marianne poured Dawn a coffee and added six spoonfuls of sugar before handing the mug to her sister. Dawn accepted with a grateful murmur. She alternated between sips of the hot liquid and cutting the bread into thin, even slices.

A companionable silence followed, only broken by the hiss of hot oil, the pop of the toaster and the scrape of toast being buttered. The silence continued until the two sisters sat down at the table. Dawn surveyed their breakfast. The rasher of bacon was joined by a plate of steaming hash browns, a bowl of orange slices and a tower of buttered toast. They each had half a large cheese omelet already on their plates. They dug in.

After Marianne had shoveled down about half her plate she took a pause to wipe her mouth with a napkin. She cleared her throat.

“I appreciate you picking up those books for me-“ Marianne began. Dawn interrupted, her brow furrowed with worry.

“I know, there’s a missing book.” She smiled at her sister, her fingers plucking nervously at her fork. Dawn glanced down and noted she needed to polish the silver, blue-green tarnish splotched the utensil. She raised her eyes to her sister’s face. Marianne was waiting for her to continue, her face calm. Dawn didn’t like it when her sister wore her Calm Face, it would scare her, except she knew Marianne would never harm her.

“It’s a funny story, actually,” Dawn went on, “there was a bit of a mix up at the book store. It’s just, Boggy went on his lunch break-“

“-Boggy?” Marianne asked, her calm face cracking into incredulous eyebrows and frowning lips.

“Well, his real name is Bog, or at least I think that’s his real name, but he’s so cute he just looks like a Boggy, ya know?” Dawn knew she was babbling but she couldn’t stop her mouth.

“Plus he makes the cutest faces when I call him Boggy, like, I can tell he really doesn’t like it but he totally puts up with it. Plus he's super tall and gentlemanly.”

Marianne’s expression darkened and Dawn knew her sister thought Bog was another in Dawn’s string of men. Dawn knew Marianne didn’t approve of how she was forever dating new men, but Dawn was searching for true love. In her opinion, this required kissing a lot of frogs. She tried to backpedal a little.

“It’s totally not like _that_ between Boggy and I,” she said, “he’s like, super old. Anyway, he went on his lunch break and one of his employees sold your book.” Dawn finished with a bright smile. She hoped Marianne would see the humour in the situation.

Her smile dimmed when she saw emotion slide off Marianne’s face. Silently, Marianne finished her breakfast in several quick gulps, left her dishes in the sink and went into her room. The door closed with a soft click. Dawn’s brain scrambled to catch up. She rose from her seat and followed Marianne, knocking on her door.

“Mar?” She called. Dawn turned the knob, it was unlocked. Marianne’s room was empty, the window facing the garden wide open.

“Shit.”

Dawn hurried to her room, changing out of her pajamas into the first thing she could lay her hands on, a rainbow-dyed maxi dress. Dawn jammed her feet into brown suede booties and grabbed her purse and a denim jacket from the back of her chair. She hurried out the front door, pausing only to lock it. She had to catch up with her sister and make sure she didn’t hurt sweet Boggy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos, the encouragement is deeply appreciated. 
> 
> This chapter started off completely differently. I keep thinking I'll go one way and the characters send me in another, which is fun but challenging. 
> 
> I love writing BAMF Marianne and sweet Dawn, expect to see more familiar faces as we float along.


	5. The Dark Forest Invaded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne confronts Bog about the missing book with unexpected results

Bog awoke hot and achy. He’d fallen asleep at his desk at home, still searching the web for a lead. Bog’s neck and shoulder muscles protested as he sat up. The _geas_ still wrapped him like a hair shirt, hot and itchy. His computer was still on, a window open with search results for nonsense. Scrubbing one hand over his face, Bog sighed in resignation. He’d fallen asleep on the keyboard, his face pressing the keys all night.

He was no closer to finding another copy of the book. Late in the night he’d removed his copy of the book from its shelf and set it on his desk. Bog hoped having it nearby would act like a magnet to summon another copy from the world. When he’d touched the book’s bindings the _geas_ eased. It returned twice as strong as soon as he’d set the book down. Even now as he stared at the worn green cover, its title written in flaked gilt, the _geas_ which pricked him edged into hot pain.

Bog gritted his teeth so hard they creaked. He was running out of options, but the idea of selling his own copy was as appealing as tearing one of his own limbs off with his bare hands. His body protested as he unfolded himself from his desk to make his way into the kitchen. The display on his microwave glowed the hour. It was still several hours before he needed to open his shop but he needed to get an early start today.

His body moved automatically, filling a carafe with water and measuring grounds to brew his first coffee of the day. He had a feeling it was going to take several pots of coffee to survive the coming day. He finished his coffee, left the mug in sink and headed into work. There was no point in standing around the house like a mushroom, he might as well get things done.

Bog walked to work, his long legs eating up the sidewalk. The walk went a long way towards clearing his head, but the scratchy hot need of the _geas_ fatigued his thoughts. Before long, he was standing before the wood and glass doors of his shop. Painted on the inside of the window in black letters edged in gold was Dark Woods: Rare  & Imported Books. He’d taken the name from his mother’s home in Underhill. That place was gone, or as good as gone, with no way to access the Underhill in his adopted country.

Bog unlocked the door and stepped into the shop, locking the door behind him. He went in search of Thang. The little creature was where Bog had left him, hanging upside down in the storeroom. Thang’s skin glistened wetly, his bulbous eyes were closed. Soft snores issued from between large, jagged teeth.

 “THANG!” Bog roared, startling the noseless creature into full wakefulness.

 “Yes boss!” Thangs skinny arms waived wildy as he tried to twist to look at Bog properly.

 “Have ye learned yer lesson?” Bog asked, crossing his long arms over his chest.

 “Clever bells are good cooks?” Thang said hopefully.

Bog shook his head.

 “No.”

 “Trevor smells like good looks?”

“No.” Bog glowered down at him. Thang ceased twisting and began wringing his hands.

“Um, uh-forever smell the curved…” He gulped loudly and guessed, “rook?”

 “Never. Sell. The. Reserved. Books.”

The icy precision in Bog’s voice sent shivers down Thang’s spine. Bog released Thang’s legs from their improvised shackles and stepped back quickly. Thang crashed to the ground and picked himself up, dusting his knees off. He started to slink away. Bog let him.

 “Put yer glamor on,” he called, “ah’m openin’ early.” Thang turned and awkwardly bowed, stammering his agreement to the floor as he backed away.

The store had been open for a quarter-hour when a woman came storming in. Bog had half a second’s warning before she was through the door and at his counter, anger steaming off of her skin. He was pierced by hot brown eyes. They held him hostage, like a snake hypnotising its prey. It was like she was burning into him, scouring his insides. The _geas_ was nothing compared to the fire she was setting in his gut with just a look. Then she spoke.

“Where the fuck is my book?” She smashed a fist down on his counter and immediately hissed in pain, shaking her hand out. Bog raised an eyebrow, hiding his reaction to her behind a polite mask.

This was Dawn’s sister? He saw the resemblance in her slight frame and delicate bones but it ended there. Her dark brown hair stuck out, as if she’d been pulling on it. Her top was purple, it’s fabric clinging interestingly to gentle curves. She wore baggy grey pants and black running shoes. She smelled like antiseptic.

 “Which book would tha’ be, princess?” He said, ignoring the twin burns of his gut and the _geas_. Bog knew he shouldn’t needle her, but her attitude had rubbed him the wrong way. Her pretty face was twisted into a snarl. Dawn had said her sister would be “kind of pissed”. If this was only kind of, Bog mused, he’d hate to see her really angry.

 “I paid you for a book and you said you had it. Where is it?” Her words dripped with acid.

Bog grimaced before schooling his face into calm.

“Unfortunately, i’ was sold with o’ ma knowledge.” He tried to keep his anger from seeping into his voice and failed.

 “Ah can give ye a refund.” He offered. It had occurred to Bog on his walk to work, if he gave her a refund it may release him from the _geas_.

 “How does a book get sold without your knowledge?” Marianne asked sharply, “Aren’t you the grand poo-bah of the Dark Forest? The mighty Bog King?” Bog winced. She came too close to the truth.

 “Even kings need to take a lunch.” He grumbled.

She snorted.

 “Look, ahm offerin’ ye a refund.” He repeated, hoping she would take the deal.

Her scowl deepened. She placed her hands on the counter, leaning forward. Again, Bog felt as if she was holding him with her eyes. He couldn’t have looked away if he wanted to.

 “I don’t need a refund.” Her words were even, her voice steady. The anger still poured off her in waves.

 “I need that book.”

Her eyes burned him and the _geas_ twisted around his throat, scorching his skin. It pushed on him, demanding he fulfill his promise, while her whiskey eyes burned his gut to ashes.

 “I can lend it to ye.” He blurted. Horror filled him at his own words, even as the _geas_ eased back to a slight itch. He hadn’t meant to offer that! Lending was almost as bad as giving away one of his books. He waited, hoping she would decline his offer. If she accepted—

 “Until ah can find ye a copy.” He added.

 “Oh.” Marianne seemed startled by this new idea. She tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes.

 “You have a copy?” She asked, “You just so happened to have a copy of a late eighteenth century book of fairy tales lying around.” It didn’t sound like she believed him. It was almost funny. Bog could twist words and omit facts to deceive, but he couldn’t lie. The rule was old and true, no fae could tell a falsehood.

 “Ah bought it th’ same time ah bought one fer you,” because he couldn’t resist the temptation he added, “tough girl.”

A corner of her mouth twitched in an almost-smile.

 “It’s a deal.” She said, sticking her hand out to shake. Bog took it gingerly, aware of how much smaller her hand felt in his. He felt callouses on her palms and fingers. Swordfighter’s hands, he thought. The _geas_ faded to nothing as they shook. Another feeling coursed along his arm and through his veins, radiating from their connection. Unlike the _geas_ it was a most pleasant tingling heat. He let go of her hand and the feeling faded.

 “Ehm,” Bog scratched the back of his head, “th’ book is at ma house.” He gave Marianne a wry smile.

 “Ah don’ trust th’ place to not burn down without me today.” He said, “Ah can deliver it to ye or ye can come back when we close. Ma house isnae a far walk.”

Marianne nodded, her body still leaning over the counter. A raw hunger struck him like a punch to the jaw. Like her sister, Marianne radiated vitality and energy. With her there was something else, a dangerous edge. He wanted her with a strength that embarrassed him.

As if thinking of Dawn summoned her, she appeared in his doorway like a frantic rainbow.

 “Leave Boggy alone!” She cried, grabbing her sister by the arm and tugging her towards the door. Marianne yelped in pain. Dawn released her arm and grabbed Marianne by the waist, hauling her out of the Dark Forest.

He shook his head in amusement. Marianne turned her head to mouth “Later” before letting herself get towed away. What a strange pair.

 Bog didn’t examine the feeling expanding inside his chest. Marianne was lovely, but there was no point in getting excited about seeing her again. It was so laughably impossible she’d be interested in a creature like him. She would take her book and they would go back to the way it was before, with Dawn ferrying between them.

Still, for the rest of the day he would glace out the window, hoping to see the brunette approach. He would scowl at his own folly, then smile at the memory of sweet Dawn tugging the fiery Marianne down the sidewalk.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have such lovely, clever, wonderful readers. You inspire and amaze me.
> 
> This chapter came unexpectedly quickly! I really enjoyed writing the banter between Bog and Marianne, I hope you enjoy reading it.


	6. Home again

 “What are you doing?” Dawn cried as she tugged Marianne down the sidewalk. Once they were out of Bog’s sight, Marianne planted her feet. She cupped Dawn’s chin and looked down into her face. Dawn’s blue eyes were open wide and full of worry. Marianne sighed. She was as susceptible as anyone when Dawn gave her the puppy dog eyes, but, being her sister meant Marianne knew she was being played.

 “What’re _you_ doing? Dating that… man?” Marianne’s voice was soft. She dropped her hands from Dawn’s face and took her hand, tugging her into a walk.

 “I told you,” Dawn scoffed, “it’s not like that between Boggy and I. That doesn’t mean its okay for you to tear his head off over an honest mistake. He’s a good guy.”

Marianne snorted. She was glad to find out Dawn and Bog weren’t together. For Dawn’s sake, of course. She ignored the prickle of relief.

“Seriously Mar,” Dawn said, “you should have seen him when he realised it was gone. He was really upset. He got super mad and yelled at the guy who sold it, too.”

“What I’m hearing is he’s abusive to his employees.” Marianne’s tone was dry.

“Considering the guy sold the book for like, twenty bucks, I think he got off light.” Dawn replied tartly.

Marianne’s steps faltered. Twenty dollars? Internally she winced for Bog. It was a steep hit and Dawn was right. The guy who sold the book was lucky Bog is his boss. If it had been Marianne, she would have chewed him up one side and down the other before kicking him to the curb.

“So how long did it take you to realise I left?” She asked. If Dawn noticed the rapid subject change she didn’t mention it.

“Right away.” Dawn replied. Something in her tone had Marianne glancing over. Dawn’s lips pressed into a tight line and she stared into the distance.

“What took you so long to –“

“Why don’t you like Bog?” Dawn blurted. Marianne raised her brows. It seemed it was Dawn’s turn to change the subject.

“I don’t dislike him. I don’t know him, except he works at a book store.” She replied.

“Owns a book store.” Dawn corrected.

“Well I didn’t know that.”

“Now you do.”

The two sisters walked in silence until they reached the house. Dawn let go of Marianne’s hand to unlock the door. Once inside, she turned to her sister.

“I have to head straight to class or I’ll be late.” Dawn said.

“I’ll clean up breakfast and make sure Father eats something.” Marianne replied, nodding.

Dawn kissed her on the cheek.

“Give Bog a chance, okay?” She said, “Not every guy is Roland.”

With her final parting shot, Dawn made a beeline for her room. Marianne crunched a piece of bacon between her teeth as she made up a plate of food for her father. A few moments later Dawn was out the door with a fat messenger bag slung over her shoulder.

As the plate of food warmed in the microwave, Marianne ate the last of the bacon and hash browns. She even had time to wash the dishes before the microwave beeped. She checked to make sure the food wasn’t too hot before grabbing a spoon and an extra napkin. Marianne balanced the utensil, napkins and plate with her injured arm before gently knocking on the door.

She waited a moment and when there was no response, she gave two hard knocks before opening the door wide. Light from the bungalow’s tall windows spilled into the stale room. Marianne picked her way over piles of clothing and around empty bottles to stand beside her father’s bed. She set the plate of food on a clear patch of floor at her feet. Marianne pulled the curtains apart, letting the golden morning sunshine stream into the room, pooling on the floor.

She pushed the window open, revelling in the breeze tickling her bare skin. The air blowing into the room smelled of sweet grass and earth. The scent of early summer flowers was on the wind. The covers stirred, bleary eyes peered at her.

“Father, you must eat.” She said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed.

A weary sigh issued forth. Dagda pushed himself up, Marianne set an extra pillow behind his head and pulled the covers up to his chest. His uncombed beard was sparse, the corners of his mouth stained purple. Long white hair hung in greasy hanks, framing his gaunt face.

Her father was painfully thin. As a man who in Marianne’s memories always had a jolly round belly and full cheeks, he looked skeletal to her. He was almost transparent. His long fingers frozen into immobile claws. Looking at him put a twist of fear into Marianne’s heart. She loved her father, what would she and Dawn do if he left them? How can she save him?

Dagda nodded to her, lifting one hand to gesture her forward. Marianne dutifully fed him. Each bite appeared to pain him, yet he equally dutifully chewed. After one slice of bacon and three spoons of hash browns, Dagda waved his hand, signalling Marianne to stop. For a long moment he gazed at her with bloodshot grey eyes.

“Nothing you can know that isn’t known,” he croaked, “Nothing you can see that isn’t shown. Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.” His voice broke and he coughed, clearing his throat.

“It’s easy. All you need is love.” He whispered hoarsely, his eyes fluttering shut.

Marianne got up.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” She said, but he was already asleep.

She sighed sadly and took the dishes to the kitchen where she set them in the sink. After Roland, she had vowed never to love again. The only love she needed was from her sister and her father. What would she do if her father faded to nothing?

*~*~*

Marianne puttered around for a few hours. She tidied the small house, weeded the garden and read a chapter in her latest mystery novel. She changed the bandages on her various injuries. Her right hand throbbed from its forcible contact with Bog’s counter.

She made peanut butter and jam sandwiches for lunch and coaxed Dagda into eating. He had a quarter of a sandwich and a cup of tea. Marianne tried to get him to eat more, but instead he turned his head and went to sleep.

She removed the empty bottles from Dagda’s room. The only hint of their contents was a sticky purple residue held between the glass threads at the mouth. She tossed his dirty clothes in the laundry before getting changed.

It’s not that she was excited to see Bog again, she told herself. It’s that she didn’t want to go out again in the same clothes she’d worn all day cleaning.

The explanation carried her through dark skinny jeans and a snug, scoop neck t-shirt in a flattering shade of plum. When she found herself applying lipstick she had to admit she was... intrigued by Bog. He’d taken her on when she was spitting mad. Roland had flinched from her when she fell into a rage, even going so far as disappearing for a day or two. She had always assumed he’d been waiting for her to cool down. It had been a hard blow to discover he hadn’t been waiting alone.

Marianne recalled Bog’s broad shoulders, sharp face and icy blue eyes. Most intriguing of all had been the flash of molten desire she’d caught on his face before he’d hidden it. She added a swipe of eyeshadow and a coat of mascara before leaving through her window to meet Bog. It was a short walk to the Dark Forest.

She could see Bog through the window as she approached. He was speaking to a tall, willowy woman. He stood behind the counter, his long hands cutting agitated figured in front of him. From his frowning face, Marianne imagined the conversation wasn’t going well. She pushed open the door.

“-no’ interested.” She caught Bog’s thick brogue. The woman huffed and turned on one heel, storming past Marianne. Bog's eyes widened when he saw Marianne.

“Lady troubles?” She asked, coming in to lean against the counter. A flush crept up Bog’s long neck.

“Ye could say tha’.” He grumbled, “Let me finish up an’ we can get ye th’ book.”

While Bog finished his work, Marianne used the opportunity to poke around the store. Dawn had been coming here for almost a month but today was the first day Marianne had set foot in the place.

Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with books. The room was filled with the scent of old paper. She ran her fingertips across the spines. She picked her way along the narrow slice of hardwood floor. Both sides of the path were lined with stacks of books and Marianne had to be careful not to knock them over.

*~*~*

“Right.” Bog said, brushing his hands on his pants. He’d finished filing the receipts and counting the till. He glanced around. Marianne had disappeared. He found her in the DIY section, a book on carving fantasy figures open in her hands. It hit him again, the hot kick in the gut of desire. He ignored the burn, it only served to remind him of what he couldn’t have.

“Am I gon’ ter see tha’ title on a list soon or do ye want to buy it now?” He asked dryly. Marianne raised an eyebrow at him and slid the book back onto the shelf.

“What makes you think I’m going to buy it?”

Bog raised an eyebrow back at Marianne.

“Call it an educated guess.” Marianne narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t argue.

Bog surprised himself with the strength of his conviction, but he did know a lot about her interests. Marianne had purchased several books on woodworking, ranging from carpentry to carving toys. Learning what people were interested in happened to be one of his favourite things about owning a book store.

“Shall we?” He asked.

“We shall.” She replied with a nod.

He gestured for Marianne to follow and turned, walking to the front of the store. She walked out the front door and waited on the sidewalk as he turned off the lights and locked up. Bog turned, pointing towards his house.

“This way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very fun chapter to write. 
> 
> Fear not, gentle reader, there will be more Potionless soon!


	7. The short ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short chapter, much like it's characters! 
> 
> Thank you wonderful readers for your patience.

Dawn held the overfull canvas bag with both arms as she hurried down the sidewalk. She hated to be late at the best of times, but finals were coming up. She had two projects due this week and needed every minute of class time. Since she couldn’t drive and hated the bus, she instead took a short cut through the park. A narrow path through a brush of trees cut almost five minutes off her walk.

She arrived to her class with a minute to spare. Dawn was grateful, she had always thought being late was almost like lying about being on time. After her class, she found Sunny waiting for her in the hallway. Dawn smiled brightly at him. She walked over to greet him with an extra-long hug.

Dawn had to bend down to embrace him, the top of Sunny’s head only came up to her shoulder. She sighed happily, Sunny always cheered her up when she was down. Just seeing him made her feel better about the morning’s events.

“Hey, is something wrong?” He asked, pulling back slightly to look into Dawn’s face.

“Oh my god you would not believe the day I’ve had and it’s not even lunch.”

Sunny smiled at her, the corners of his hazel brown eyes crinkling.

“Don’t worry,” He told her as they walked towards the cafeteria, “we can get smoothies and you can tell me all about it.”

Dawn was thankful Sunny was willing to be her confidant. They become fast friends two years before online in a music lover’s forum. Dawn no longer went on that forum, but she and Sunny hardly let a day go by without some correspondence. She loved having him around in the flesh. It is so nice to see his face and be able to hold his hand, or hug him, she thought.

Today they had two hours of overlapping free time between classes. They had made plans the night before to spend the first hour of that period proofreading each other’s homework. Although Sunny was taking classes to become a sound engineer and Dawn sometimes needed him to explain parts of it. They talked about their projects as they stood in line for their drinks.

Sunny waited until they were seated beside the window before he asked.

“So what happened?”

Dawn took a long sip of her smoothie before she spoke.

“First, Marianne snuck in this morning through her window, then she freaked out about the missing book and snuck out her window again to harass Boggy at his store. I had to go rescue him but on the way there, I ran into Roland.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sunny said, holding up his hands in a stopping motion. “Marianne’s ex-boyfriend Roland ran into you on the street this morning?”

“Yeah, it’s weird right?” Dawn poked her straw in and out of the thick goo of her smoothie. She liked the way Sunny looked into her eyes when she was talking, his attention unwavering.

“I was distracted trying to catch up with Marianne and he saw me on the street. He asked about Marianne.” Dawn frowned. Roland had been charming, as usual, smiling and polite. She didn’t hate him, but she didn’t want him around if Marianne didn’t. Considering they had moved cities after Marianne had broken things off, it wasn’t hard to deduce she wanted nothing to do with him.

“What’d you say?” Sunny took a deep drink from his cup. When he looked up he had a bright green “mustache”. Dawn giggled, just like he knew she would and Sunny licked his upper lip clean. Dawn felt a shiver up her spine. She figured it must be from the cold drink.

“I told him she was fine, but then I had to go.” Dawn tapped her short fingernails against the table, agitated again. “It was just so weird to see him in town.”

She took another deep sip before continuing.

“Also, like, where does Marianne go at night? Sometimes she doesn’t come home until after the sun is up.”

“Maybe she has a secret boyfriend.” Sunny replied, only half teasing.

Dawn rolled her eyes at him.

“Secret girlfriend?” He offered with a grin.

“I would _know_ if she was dating someone,” Dawn scoffed, “it’s something else.”

Sunny shrugged good-naturedly.

“So how did you know she snuck out her window?” He asked.

She rolled her eyes at him again.

“Oh silly, the flowers told me.”


	8. Walk home

Bog and Marianne spent the first minute of their walk in awkward silence before they began speaking at the same time.

 “You know we haven’t actually—“ He said.

“So was that your—“ She said.

They both laughed. Bog waved a hand towards her.

“Please,” He said, “go on.” Marianne hesitated. Her question seemed too personal now she had a moment to think it over.

“No, you first.” She said, but she smiled so he’d know she wasn’t being polite.

Bog looked startled for a moment. Marianne thought she saw appreciation in his eyes. He recovered quickly, his eyes shuttering again.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat. “I realised we’ve never been introduced. Ah know a bit about ye from your sister but—“ He trailed off, scratching the back of his head.

Is he nervous? Marianne wondered. She stuck her right hand out towards him, without breaking her stride.

“Marianne Fairfield.” She said.

Bog took her hand, his hand engulfing hers. It was the second time they’d touched that day and just like the last time Marianne felt… something. A thrill which raced up her arm and into her belly and lower. Bog only held on long enough to give her hand a brisk shake. As soon as he released her, the thrill faded, leaving only heat in its wake.

There was a part of her pleased to know all her lady bits still worked. Roland hadn’t completely spoiled attraction for her. There was a larger part of her which wished her female parts had picked a better time to wake up. Even if she hadn’t vowed never to love again, the timing was terrible. She had to focus all her energy on saving her father.

“Broehain King.” Bog gave her a quick smile. Marianne felt a kick of heat in her gut. Oh no.

“Ye can call me Bog,” He continued, “everyone does, even me mum.”

“So now we’ve been formally introduced, Bog,” Marianne said, “do I have to ask what your intentions are towards my sister?” She winced internally. Her voice was harsher than she’d intended, the words sharper. She’d meant to broach the subject casually, not blurt it out like an accusation.

“No, it’s no’ like tha’ with Dawn.” Bog exclaimed, his eyebrows winging towards his hairline. Marianne tried not to notice how soft his hair looked. It was sable brown, silver dusted at his temples. Bog wore it short on the sides and longer on top, adding height to his already formidable frame.

“She’s…” He hesitated, “She’s, ah, lovely, but… she’s my friend.” He glanced at Marianne. Their eyes met for an instant before he looked forward.

“Besides,” He continued, “ah believe she has mor’n enough paramours, she disnae need a hideous old man.” She could tell he was teasing, but his words bothered her.

“You’re not hideous.” She said, frowning at him. “You’re not even that old. You’re what, thirty?”

Bog chuckled.

“Older than tha’, tough girl.”

Marianne told herself she should object to the nickname, but she liked being called a tough girl. She was a tough girl. Roland had always called her Buttercup. As if she was a buttercup, delicate and weak. Yellow.

She realized she was clenching her fists and forced her hands to relax. She had to stop comparing every man she met to Roland! Marianne banished Roland from her thoughts.

“So, ehm, can I ask ye something personal?” Bog said. Marianne glanced at his face but he was looking ahead.

“Go ahead.” She replied, stuffing her hands into her jean’s back pockets.

“Why fairy tales?”

It hadn’t been the question Marianne was expecting. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d been expecting but this wasn’t it. Her steps faltered before she resumed walking. Why fairy tales? The answer was complicated and she didn’t want to go into detail. It was against her nature to lie, so instead she settled on a half-truth.

“I’ve always been…” She hesitated. “Interested in them. When I was younger, I read a lot of them. I like to find different versions of the same story.” It sounded lame to Marianne, she spoke again quickly to cover her boring answer.

“Now it’s my turn to ask a question.” She said.

“Alrigh’, I suppose I owe ye one.” He grumbled, but when she met his eyes there was a smile in them. She glanced away. To inspect the neighbourhood, she told herself.

They had come to a street on the other side of the residential area which made up Marianne’s neighbourhood. As they moved in deeper among the square brick houses and tidy lawns, she realized this must be Bog’s neighbourhood too. The neighbourhood was the result of a population boom in the seventies. The small brick houses were planted in tidy rows with tidy flowerbeds. Marianne wished people would grow more flowers. It was strange how they lived so close, but, she thought, it will make the walk home easier.

“So, um, do you have any siblings?” She asked, hoping her rapid subject change would go unnoticed. Apparently it was, as Bog’s face registered a polite curiosity.

“No. Ahm an only child.” He sighed. “I do believe ma life would be easier with a few brothers or sisters around.”

Marianne snorted.

“Life would be better, but definitely not easier. Siblings can cause all kinds of trouble.” She said.

Bog had stopped walking in front of a plot where the trim not white like its neighbours, but a forest green. The lawn was slightly overgrown, yellow dandelions winking at Marianne from the shelter of the grass.

The flower bed was bordered by tiny clusters of blue grape hyacinths. Tall daffodils and tulips mixed in clumps. Though, the petals had all fallen off all the tulips from the early summer heat. She could see the first fuzzy lavender branches poking out behind the flowers.

Bog kept a good garden, she thought, amused by the ceramic mushroom ornaments dotted through the flowerbed. Bog cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders. He gestured with one long fingered hand towards the house.

“If you’d like to come in you’re welcome but I wilnae take offense if ye want to stay on the porch.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Strange men’s houses an’ all that.”

“It’s okay,” Marianne said breezily, walking up the cement path ahead of him, “I‘m pretty strange myself.”

*~*~*

Bog swallowed hard. It was hard to keep his wits about him, not when Marianne was so close he could smell the citrus scent on her skin. He wasn’t worried about the inside of his house, since anything out of the ordinary should be covered by the house’s glamour. He was pretty sure he didn’t have to worry about Stuff, the Brownie who kept his house clean, as he rarely ever saw her. She preferred to spend her free time in her room in the attic and cleaned silently at night.

Marianne waited by the door as he plucked the correct key from the jumbled ring and jammed it into the lock. He had to duck his head slightly, or his hair would brush the low porch roof. Finally, after what felt like agonizing minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, the lock gave and Bog led Marianne into his home.

He tried to view it from her perspective, seeing it for the first time. The entrance way opened into the living room. Brass floor lamps sat beside an overstuffed red leather couch. His fireplace on the far wall was clean, it’s mantle bare of any decorations. A large painting of a forest hung over the mantle.

All other wall space was taken up by custom bookshelves. Bog kept most of his fiction downstairs, where any guests could feel free to pick up and read something. Not that he’d had many guests, aside from his mother.

From the living room he knew she could see into the front hall and a little ways into the kitchen. Marianne still stood in the doorway, staring at his bookshelves.

“Wow,” she said, “you really got into the right business.”

“If I were smart,” he said, moving deeper into the room “I would have opened a shop where ah dinnae want to buy everything.”

Marianne had moved over to the closest shelf, examining the titles along the spines.

Bog chuckled.

“Th’ book ye want is upstairs.” A strange thought occurred to him. “If ye like tha’ you should see the shelves in ma study. It’s where ah keep ma rare an’ old books.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing, inviting this woman into his home and his study, except he knew he wanted to see her there. He wanted to see Marianne standing among his rare and precious treasures.

It was a bad idea and he should just get the book from upstairs and give it to her. It would end the _geas_ and he would go back to the way his life was before. Visits from Dawn at the shop, his mother his only house guest and no snappy conversations with sassy women. Except he couldn’t. He couldn’t just give her his book. And Bog liked her, which was a dangerous thing for his loveless vow.

Marianne turned, raising one dark eyebrow.

“Of course you have more books. I bet you keep all your cooking books in the kitchen, too.” Bog smothered a grin.

“Ah can give ye th’ ten cent tour.” He offered, surprised at himself. What was it about her which made him want to extend their time together? He was even more surprised when Marianne accepted.

He guided her to the kitchen, where there was in fact a shelf above the kitchen table filled with well-worn cookbooks. From there he took her back to the hall to show her the guest room and it's bathroom. He left his second favourite room in the house for last. In reality it was another bedroom, which he had no need for, so he’d filled it with plants. In his mind he called it his conservatory.

Marianne let out a quiet gasp in delight which went straight to Bog’s head. She took several steps into the room before turning to look at him, her eyes glowing.

“This is so cool!” She exclaimed before exiting again. Bog watched as she brushed her hands along the soft fronds of the ferns as she passed by. He had never been jealous of a plant before, but the burn in his gut told him he could learn.

Once Marianne had her fill of the room and entered the hallway, Bog lead her upstairs, explaining.

“After I bought th’ house, I knocked down most o’ the walls up here.” His study was a wide, open room, taking up an L-shaped part of the entire second story. Bookshelves lined every available space on the walls. At one end, a bay window faced his back yard, its seat lined with fat green velvet pillows. At the other end was his desk, the chair behind it was dark wood with a tall back, with the same overstuffed red leather as his couch downstairs.

The bookshelves behind his desk were special. Sealed, tinted acrylic doors protected his valuable books from light and air contamination. A discreet unit hooked to each shelf regulated temperature and humidity. He explained this to Marianne, watching her explore the room. It was uncomfortable to look at his home through the eyes of a stranger. He was suddenly conscious of how plain his house must seem, with nothing on the walls except books. Even his desk was unadorned except a smooth block of marble with a stand for his fountain pen.

Bog crossed the room in a few steps and grabbed the book off his desk.

“Here,” He held the small green book out to her. Marianne turned slowly, before reaching an elegant hand out to take it. Bog took pains to not touch Marianne’s fingers; he didn’t think he could survive touching her while she stood among his books. Her mouth quirked but she didn’t say anything, leaving Bog to wonder if she’d noticed.

Marianne turned the book around in her hands before carefully opening it. He was admiring how her slim fingers held the delicate pages when she raised the book to her face, closed her eyes and sniffed it. Bog felt the quiet intake of breath deep in his gut. How unexpectedly erotic it was to see Marianne’s face filled with sensual pleasure from the smell of an old book.

He carefully boxed up the thought and buried it in the back of his mind. He had no business thinking anything Marianne did was enticing or erotic or adorable or anything! She wasn’t for him, so he had to end any errant thoughts quickly, before they did more damage.

When she opened her eyes, she didn’t seem to notice Bog having a crisis less than a foot from her. Her focus was still on the small book in her hands. Bog stepped away from her, the movement unintentionally causing Marianne to focus on him again.

“Sorry,” She said, not sounding sorry at all, “I get pretty intense about books.”

Bog snorted.

“I wouldnae ever guess tha’ about you, Tough Girl.”


	9. Tea and Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waiting to write this chapter since I started this fic! It feels so good!

She was still watching him with those eyes, Bog thought. He shifted uncomfortably under her intent gaze. He was saved from trying to make any further conversation by the sound of his front door opening. Bog felt the blood drain from his face. Oh no, her timing was awful.

 “Bog!” The hoarse cry came from the front of the house.

 “Shit.” He cursed under his breath. Marianne’s brow was knit in confusion.

 “Who’s that?” She asked, trying to step around Bog to peer down the stairs. For once his broad shoulders came in handy blocking her route.

 “My mother.” He answered, loudly calling, “Ahm upstairs Ma, with a guest.”

Bog turned to face Marianne. She had one eyebrow raised, a look of curiosity in her amber eyes. He considered asking her to climb out the upstairs window. He knew from experience it wasn’t a bad climb down, the bricks provided a decent hand hold. Bog dismissed the idea. It was ludicrous he should be made so nervous by his own mother, but there it was.

 “Ehm, don’ take anything she says personally,” He offered, “she’s a little…” He trailed off then shrugged. It would take longer than he had to explain his mother. He wasted another moment wishing Marianne wasn’t so pretty and appealing. Griselda would take one look at her and start planning.

 “Well let’s not keep her waiting.” She replied and pushed past him to head down the stairs. Bog followed closely behind, absently rubbing the spot where she touched him. He prayed to the moon his mother took the hint and kept her glamour on. His prayers were answered. When she appeared at the base of the stairs, she looked like a stout older woman with red hair, wearing a normal (if shapeless) green dress. Though, just as her son, she couldn’t hide her height, the top of her frizzy head barely cresting his elbows.

 “Look at you!” She cooed at Marianne, “What a lovely vision you are!” Griselda was grinning rather broadly at the taller woman. Bog didn’t like the predatory gleam in his mother’s small eyes. Marianne must have noticed because she send a pleading look over her shoulder at him, but it was too late. Griselda grabbed Marianne by the hand, towing her to the kitchen, chattering at his guest.

 “Come,” his mother said, “you must sit down and have a cup of tea and tell me all about how you met my son.” Bog supressed a sigh. It would be easier, he knew, to just go along and humor her until she discovered they weren’t dating, only… What, friends? Were they friends? Bog glanced at Marianne who sat at his kitchen table, transfixed by his mother’s flow of unending commentary. He thought they were friends now. He took the seat across from Marianne so he could keep an eye on both her and his mother.

 “I swear I never thought my son would bring a woman home.” Griselda said. “He spends all his time in that dusty old store I lost hope he would lift his nose out of a book long enough to see a pretty thing like you.”

She worked as she spoke, filling the kettle, retrieving a teapot and three mugs from his cupboard. She added several scoops of loose leaf tea from a tin on his counter into the pot before taking a seat. Griselda patted Marianne’s hand. “When did you two start dating?”

 “Um, well, actually,” Marianne started, “I just came over to borrow a book.” She darted a glance at Bog, who had decided it would be easiest to accept this turn of events. His mother was not a force which could be easily turned aside.

Griselda shook her head.

 “He hasn’t asked to court you yet?” She demanded and smacked Bog’s arm, “Well he comes by it honestly, dearie. His father moved slow as molasses too, though,” Her lips curved in a wicked, wistful smile, “once we started courting, he moved pretty quick—“

 “Mom!”

 “—if you take my meaning.” She finished, winking at Marianne, who was saved from replying by the whistle of the kettle. Griselda rose and bustled over to the stove to make tea.

Bog scrubbed one hand over his face, he could feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. Marianne had strange look on her face, amused and astonished. He felt a pinch of guilt at letting his mother push her into sticking around for tea. However, he figured a tough girl like Marianne would have spoken up if she truly objected. He was certainly paying for it in mortification.

Griselda set the teapot in the center of the table and turned, retrieving the empty mugs from the counter. She placed them in front of Bog, Marianne and herself. Bog noted her, but he was watching Marianne.

She had been quiet since his mother arrived and watching her now he saw a look of envy cross her face. Dawn had never mentioned their mother, so Bog had assumed she had passed away. He felt a twinge under his breastbone, a sympathy pain for her. He knew what it was to lose a beloved parent.

Griselda laughed, breaking Bog out of his thoughts.

 “How silly of me, I forgot milk and sugar!” She said and turned opening a cupboard to retrieve a plastic container. Bog glanced at Marianne again. She was looking down at the book she’d set beside her empty mug.

 “You know, I think we should change into something more comfortable for tea.” Griselda commented. It took Bog a moment to register what she’d said. It was a moment too long.

Griselda snapped three times.

_Snap!_

_Snap!_

 “Mother, no!” Bog cried, rising to his feet. He grabbed for her outstretched hand, Marianne looking on in with an expression of utter confusion.

_Snap!_

The glamour in the kitchen broke. Bog’s scaly grey hand closed over his mother’s three-fingered paw.

Bog heard Marianne’s startled gasp. He couldn’t look at her, couldn’t stand to see the look of shock and horror on her face. Bog waited for her to scream. Everyone always screamed. He didn’t blame them, Bog knew what he looked like.

He was hideous, his long, insect-like arms ended in clawed hands, his skin was grey and rough as tree bark. His shoulders sprouted chitinous plated pauldrons, their spiky edges cutting into the cotton of his shirt. His wings were pressed flat against his back, smothered by his button-up.

His face was worst of all, spiny and scarred, all sharp angles and crooked lines. Only the blue of his eyes remained the same. Much like his height, he was unable to hide his eyes.

She wasn’t screaming. Bog glanced at her, then stared, his jaw dropping. Marianne stood stiffly, her eyes wide and angry. It took him a moment to notice she had pointed ears. His eyes travelled over her, taking in the subtle changes to her face and the not-so-subtle purple wings sticking out from under her t-shirt.

 “Yer a bloody fairy?” Bog shouted at her. Her hands were fisted tightly at her sides and she took a threatening step towards him.

 “You—“ She stopped. “I—I have to go.” Before he could blink Marianne had run out the front door.

 “Well,” Griselda said, “that could have gone better.”

Bog felt as if he’d been dipped in biting ants. Hot itchy pain radiated over him, the _geas_ returning.

She’d left the book on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I love a good reveal. 
> 
> For a bit of clarity, glamour acts something like a protective skin, to help protect fae from iron and to disguise them. It also bends reality, because for mortals, the glamour seems perfectly real. So, when Bog was glamoured, his wings were effectively gone and wouldn't cause him any discomfort.


	10. Dawn's request

 

 

It took Bog over an hour to replace the glamour on his kitchen, even with Stuff coming down from the attic to assist. The _geas_ itched him  terribly  .  Griselda, not one to waste a good pot of tea, sat at the kitchen table, sipping her mug, pinkies out and offering occasional comments .

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she said, for the fourth time.  Bog gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on disguising the mushrooms which sprang up around his sink  . Stuff,  wisely , said nothing. She had come down to help but didn’t want to get between Bog and his mother. Instead, she also sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea from Marianne’s abandoned mug.

  

“Ah told you,” He growled from behind his clenched teeth, “ah only met her today.”

  

Griselda waved a paw at him in dismissal.

  

“Oh relax your thorax, you’ve been hanging around her sister long enough to notice.” Griselda drawled, taking another sip of tea.

  

“No’ everyone has the clear sight, Mother.” Bog grumbled.  It was true, he had inherited more from his father than his formidable height and rough appearance  . Bog’s magic was more  closely  tied to his father’s side.  It was rare, but days like today he wished he had some of the clear sight like his mother, allowing him to see through illusions  .  Perhaps  then he would have seen this coming.

  

Did Dawn know he was Fae as well? Was that why she frequented his shop? Marianne had obviously been surprised by it, so if Dawn knew, why wouldn’t she have told her sister? Griselda finally finished the pot of tea, tidied up the dishes and left.

 

Under the irritation with his mother and the _geas_ , Bog felt a kind of resigned regret.  There had been the slightest of chances Marianne could have liked him back in his mortal guise, if she’d been mortal as well  . There had been a glimmer of hope he could have asked permission to court her and not  be rejected  outright. Now that glimmer had  been stamped  out by cold reality. He was a hideous monster and she… She was more beautiful as Fae. Further out of his reach.

 

Bog had resigned himself to finding Marianne, if only to give her the book and ease the _geas_ paining him. The sun had set and the evening cooled before he managed to glamour himself enough he could leave his house.  He had Marianne’s home address from Dawn, he’d needed it when they set up their ordering and payment arrangements  . Bog was thankful for that now.  He donned a grey trench coat, tucked the book (wrapped in thick protective plastic) in his pocket and headed out the door .

 

As he approached the brick bungalow, Bog started to feel nervous. What if she refused to take the book? What if she wouldn’t even talk to him? Did she tell Dawn what he is? Bog swallowed hard. It took him a moment to pluck up the courage to knock on the door.

 

“Coming!” It was Dawn’s voice which replied from behind the door, Dawn’s face when the door opened.  She was still in her  garishly  rainbow dress, but even the bright colours couldn’t disguise the tension on her face . The tension eased some when she saw him.

 

“Boggy, oh thank the moon.” She sighed, grabbing his arms and dragging him over the threshold. Dawn closed the door behind him and started to pace.

 

“Ehm, Dawn, there’s something I should—“

 

“Oh don’t bother, silly, I already know.” She said, waiving one hand at him. Bog’s eyes widened. How did she know? Dawn glanced at his face and sighed.

 

“I saw Thang without his glamour in the stacks,” she explained, “like, the second or third time I visited? So I borrowed some ‘eye cream’ and checked out your store.”  She wiggled her index and middle fingers together when she said “eye cream”, making what Bog knew  was called  air quotes  . He  was left  to wonder where she had borrowed fairy ointment from. It was  exceedingly  rare.

 

“Ah, well.” He said, at a loss. Then he noticed how odd she was acting. Dawn was twisting her hands together and shifting from foot-to-foot. Twice since she’d let him in she’d glanced towards a closed door behind her, worry in her eyes. Was she hiding Marianne? He wondered, but he doubted Marianne would hide from him. The last time he’d seen her she had looked angry, not scared.

 

A loud throat-clearing sounded from the living area. A small man was sitting on one end of an L-shaped couch.  Papers  were spread  around him and judging from the binders and backpacks Bog assumed he’d interrupted a study session . It spoke to how distracted he was that he hadn’t noticed another person in the room.

 

“Oh, Boggy—“

 

“Bog.” His correction was half-hearted.

 

“—have you met my best friend Sunny?” She asked, tugging Bog towards the young man and the couch.

 

“Ah, no. Pleased to meet you.” Bog tried, for Dawn’s sake, not to sound gruff when he spoke. From the way Sunny shrank away from him, he hadn’t succeeded. Bog realized he was looming over the much smaller man and stepped back.

 

 

 

“Listen, Dawn, ah  really  need to speak with Marianne.” Bog removed the book from his pocket and set it on the wooden coffee table.  He couldn’t help but notice the table itself was beautiful, a long chunk of live edge oak, the top smoothed and polished . The stubby legs appeared to be branches left in their organic shape.

 

“It’s nice, right?” Dawn said, noting his regard, “Marianne made it.” She blew out a breath. “The thing is she’s not here.”

 

Dawn sat beside Sunny, her left leg bouncing. She was twisting her hands again.

 

“She’s gone and I’m afraid she’s going to get into some trouble so I kind of need a favour from you.”

 

Bog knew what she meant. A favour between Fae was like a contract, binding in its word. If he accepted, he would be able to ask Dawn to do something for him in the future.  Briefly  , Bog wondered what kind of power a Fae like Dawn or Marianne had, before dismissing the thought  . It didn’t actually matter, Dawn was his friend and Marianne was his… Sort-of friend.  Maybe . Either way he would help, even without a favour. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.

 

“What kind of favour?” Bog asked, taking a seat on the farthest edge of the couch.

 

“I need you to go to the Goblin Market and make sure she’s okay.”

 

Bog  quickly  masked his shock, his eyes darted to Sunny’s face, but the young man registered no surprise in his brown eyes  .  His face was calm, the sprinkle of freckles across his dark skin made him look younger than his years, Bog guessed . Did he think the Goblin Market was some new slang?

 

Bog knew where the Market was in Normal, though he’d never actually gone there.  It  was housed  in an abandoned mall on the outer edge of town, the crumbling concrete building abandoned for over a decade . It was a rough place, where anyone could trade and you could find almost anything if you knew who to ask. Why was Marianne going there? Before he could do more than open his mouth to speak, Dawn was talking again.

 

“She made me promise, Marianne did, that I would never go to the Goblin Market, so, like, I can’t and I’m pretty sure that’s where she is right now  . I would have asked Sunny but since he isn’t Fae he can’t find it.” Dawn turned to Sunny and said, “That’s where  I think  she’s been going at night.”

 

Sunny frowned at her.

 

“Dawn, you can’t go outing other Fae!” he admonished, “ Just  because I know about you doesn’t mean you’re allowed to tell me other, uh, people, are Fae. It’s supposed to be secret and it’s their secret to tell.” He turned to look at Bog.

 

“Sorry, Mister, uh, Boggy. Er, Bog.”

 

Bog  was startled  . He wasn’t used to mortals arguing on behalf of Fae, let alone against another Fae. And he was so relaxed and casual. Bog wasn’t  entirely  surprised about Dawn’s indifference to secrecy.  She was still very young, and from what he knew, her sister sheltered her from the dangers many mortals presented . It was usually a hard lesson learned and Bog was glad she was still innocent. Still, it took him a moment to decide what to address first.

 

“Thank your for yer concern, Sunny.” He said, nodding at the small man. Bog turned towards Dawn.

 

“I’ll help ye, but tell me, why would Marianne go to the Goblin Market?”  Bog knew he shouldn’t waste time, the sooner he was able to return the book to Marianne, the sooner the _geas_ would ease its thorny irritation . He couldn't help it, he had to know. Dawn’s face fell.

 

“I can’t tell you.” She said, her voice quiet. Bog frowned. Damn these flighty fairies, running into trouble with no thought for anyone else. Damn Marianne for putting Dawn in this position. Damn himself for caring so much.

 

“Very well,” he said, “as a favour to me, explain why Marianne would go to the Goblin Market.”

 

From her expression Bog could tell this wasn’t the tact she had expected him to take.  Silently  , she rose from her seat and beckoned him to follow her.  Sunny remained seated,  ostensibly  returning to his homework,  however  His eyes never left Dawn’s form . Bog rose to follow her to the closed door which she had not stopped glancing at.

 

Dawn knocked  softly  on the door before pushing it open. The smell of dust, unwashed bodies and a sweet fruity scent punched Bog in his long nose. A fat glass jar sat on the floor next to the bed, the remains of a purple substance clung to its rim. On the bed, a lumpy form shifted and grunted before stilling again.

 

“Father?” Dawn called  quietly  . Bog felt disgust and pity curl in his belly. This was their father? He realized Dawn’s stories including her father must have  been exaggerated , or old. How could a creature like this argue with Marianne or scold Dawn for her flirtations?

 

When the form didn’t move, she sighed and closed the door, turning to Bog.

 

“ I think  she’s trying to find out who is giving our father Goblin fruit.” Dawn’s voice was soft, she stared at her hands. Bog tried to keep the shock from his face. Goblin fruit was dangerous.  It gave the user a feeling of euphoria and a boost to their magical power, but was deadly addictive to mortals or half-Fae . He’d even heard some full blood Fae could become addicted to the feeling the fruit gave you once imbibed. Bog had never tried it.

 

“It  just  started appearing one day,” Dawn continued, “we tried sharing a vigil but the moment you turned your back, he had it  . We tried sealing his room, but he grew so  poorly  we had to open the windows and allow fresh air and flowers in again. I’ve asked the flowers under his window, but they can’t account for it. Flowers only understand simple things, like sun and water and shadow.”

 

Dawn sighed again.

 

“So you’ll help me? You’ll check on Marianne and make sure she’s okay?” Her big blue eyes were hopeful when she looked at him. Bog cursed under his breath. Damn his weakness.

 

“Aye, I’ll go find your sister.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you for sticking with this story, I know I have written in a few mysteries which need addressing. Please feel free to ask questions, if I'm not planning on explicitly explaining in future chapters, I'll provide clarification.
> 
> This chapter I took some inspiration from Seanan McGuire's October Daye series for the effects of Goblin fruit, but tweaked it a bit to fit my story. So Dagda isn't a drunk, but he's an addict. 
> 
> I also took some inspiration from the poem "Goblin Market" by Christina Rossetti, check it out (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44996/goblin-market)


	11. All tied up

Marianne awoke to darkness and cursed herself for an idiot. She should have known better. She _did_ know better. _Third times’ the harm_ , her father used to say. If she hadn’t been so distracted, she would have remembered and waited a night to revisit the Market. But she’d been so confident, so sure tonight was the night she would find the key to helping her father. Instead, she’d found trouble and lots of it.

The back of her head throbbed. Marianne went to lift a hand to check for blood when she realized her hands and arms were bound too tight to move. Marianne’s heart began pounding in her chest, fluttering like a frantic bird trying to escape her rib cage. She breathed slowly through her nose to ease the panic and took stock of her body. She was gagged, she noticed, a wide strip of fabric tied tightly around her head. It tasted of dry cloth and dust.

Marianne’s tongue was dry, her throat parched. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she saw there was a small strip of light where the door did not quite meet the floor. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for her to see she’d been bound at ankles, calves and thighs as well. A glance down confirmed her arms were tied above the elbows around her chest. Surely all this rope wasn’t necessary for one little fairy, she thought. But, two of the five goons who’d jumped her still wore the bruises she’d given them last night.

Then again, she wore theirs too. Thinking of them, her bruises began to throb with the thudding of her heart. Her arm joined in the protest with its own dull pain. Despite her aches, she knew they had gone easy on her. There had been five of them and one of her and even with her long knife, she was no match for that number. Maybe if they’d been in an open field, not in the cramped hallway outside the herbwife’s stall.

She should have suspected something when the old hedgehog who ran the shop had been absent, her shelves empty. She should have known better. Three times’ the harm and here she was. Trussed up like a calf to the slaughter. Marianne turned from those thoughts. She couldn’t start thinking about what the five brutes or their employer was going to do with her.

She leaned over and twisted her legs up to check if she still had the knife in her boot. She did not. Marianne huffed an impatient breath through her nose and tried to think through the pain.

She thought she was still in the mall, unless there was another building with the same ugly paint job. Marianne could see the garish orange colour of the walls at the edges of the door, where the light was brightest.

She rolled onto her side and squirmed towards the door, inching forward. Once she reached the small strip of light she moved close to peer out. Marianne could make out the soles of two pairs of feet. The familiar peeling linoleum floor and fluorescent lighting gave her hope. She was still in the Market building.

Marianne wriggled closer and pressed her ear to the gap, holding her breath to listen. Nothing. Her heartbeat sounded loudly in her head, a pulsing noise in the silence. She cursed. They had silenced the door. Though it had never been a skill of Marianne’s, Dawn had been able to silence a room since she was a small child.

She was unsure if the one who spelled the room was skilled enough to silence one way, allowing them to hear her. When they had been growing up, Dawn delighted in torturing Marianne by locking her in a room and singing at her through the door. No matter how Marianne would protest, Dawn could make it so her voice never crossed the threshold.

Marianne decided to remain quiet for now. If she made noise, they might check on her and she wanted time to think. Things were not looking good. If only she hadn’t been so distracted. As quietly as she could she inched her body towards the wall opposite the door. With a great deal of twisting and heaving she was able to prop herself up in the corner of the room.

It was all Bog’s fault, she reasoned. If he—his mother, hadn’t revealed her, revealed them, she wouldn’t have been thinking about it when she should have been paying attention. How could he be a Fae? He’d seemed so normal. Except for maybe his obsession with books, though Marianne couldn’t fault him for that. Didn’t she love books too? Didn’t she understand obsession?

Thinking about how Griselda had stripped her of glamour in an instant made Marianne feel queasy on top of her pain. She pushed away those thoughts as well, throwing up while gagged was not an experience she wanted to have. Instead she turned her thoughts to who could have known she was frequenting the Market. Dawn might have a suspicion, though Marianne was fairly confident she had covered her tracks. She was never completely sure how much of the world her father actually experienced and how much he lived in his mind, but it seemed likely he wouldn’t notice. Still, neither of her family members were going to hire thugs to beat her and tie her up, she was sure of that.

That left very few suspects. Bog was near the top of her list. He’d been connected to her for weeks without her knowledge and had recently entered her life. Was it coincidence she was attacked the night before the day she met him?

You went to him, a voice inside her argued.

He provoked me by selling my book, she thought back.

It was an honest mistake, she argued with herself, the voice in her mind sounding exactly like Dawn.

Dawn.

What would her sister do when Marianne didn’t come home? Marianne tried to slow her breathing, to slow her panic. She would find a way out of this, she would make it back home to Dawn. She had too.

It seemed pretty unlikely Bog would hire men to harm her. Today, there had been moments when Marianne thought he might have found her funny. Twice she had caught him looking at her when he thought she couldn’t see. His eyes had burned with a hot emotion she couldn’t identify, but had sent shivers down her spine all the same.

Still, she wasn’t a girl to be swayed because she thought a boy was cute and funny. No, she had learned that lesson the hard way.

The door opened in a burst of sound and light. She could only see the silhouette of her guard against the bright light in the doorway. He turned to address someone over his shoulder.

“The beast has awoken.” He drawled. He seemed familiar and it dawned on her he was one of the three new thugs the first two had brought. Each of the men had been almost identical in build, whipcord thin and medium height. Their appearance was made more similar by the same dark blonde hair and grey-blue eyes hidden behind black cloth half-masks. When she’d first seen them she’d laughed, thinking they looked like the Dread Pirate Roberts or Zorro.

His appearance now wasn’t funny anymore. Behind him, she saw another one of the triplets, as she’d decided to call them, flipping her knife in the air and catching it. Rage pumped in her veins, adrenaline dulling her pain and nausea. She turned her gaze on the closer guard, wishing she had the power to curse with only her eyes. The masked figure only laughed at her.

“You’d love to hurt me now, wouldn’t you, slag?” He laughed again and crouched next to her. “Yeah, I can tell by that stare you’d like to take back your knife and sheath it in me.”

He leaned closer.

 “I’ll tell you a secret, between you and me.” He whispered, leaning so close Marianne could feel his breath brush her cheeks.

 “I want to hurt you too.” He smiled, almost kindly at her, “You’ve caused me and my boys some aches we’d love to repay you for and if I could?” He grinned at her. “I’d take that pretty knife of yours and repay you with it until your own mother wouldn’t know you.” He reached out and stroked a finger down her cheek. Marianne flinched away. Unfortunately there was nowhere to go in the corner and she thumped her head against the concrete. Pain exploded behind her eyes and she struggled not to show it.

The crouching figure tutted at her.

 “You’re very lucky,” He said, straightening. Marianne couldn’t tilt her head up to look at him, moving her head released starbursts of pain. Her vision was reduced to his knees down.

 “If my employer hadn’t wanted you whole and unharmed, well…” He trailed off. “As it is, we can’t have you getting excited and hurting yourself.” There was a rustle of cloth as he pulled something from his pocket. At once he blew something into her face, a shimmery pink powder. Marianne closed her eyes and tried to hold her breath. It was no use. The burnt sugar smell invaded her nostrils, prying its way behind her eyes and even seeping in through her ears.

She exhaled sharply through her nose to clear it, but her body couldn’t resist the urge to breathe and she inhaled quickly. The effect was immediate. The pink cloud travelled through her nostrils into her lungs and into her blood. She felt her muscles relax and her mind blurred. The panic she’d felt since waking eased into blissful numb nothingness. She blinked, her eyelids felt gritty and heavy with exhaustion.

 “Feels good, doesn’t it?” A voice asked through the pink fog. Marianne tried to respond, only to find she couldn’t speak. Instead she nodded and felt like her brain was sloshing in her skull. It did feel good. There was no pain, only a pretty pink fog filled with glittering motes, like stars.

 “There’s a good slag.” The voice said, a hand patting her on the knee, then the room was quiet and closed again. The pink fog still glittered in front of her, even in the dark room. She wasn’t a good slag, she thought blurrily, she was a tough girl. Bog had said so.

Bog. She wondered what he was doing right now. Was he sitting at his desk and reading one of his beautiful books? Was he dressed as a man, or instead was his intriguing, jagged true form more comfortable? All spiny grey skin and sharp armour plates. What would Dawn say if she knew Marianne found Bog attractive in both forms? Marianne’s sister was a bit more literal in ideas of beauty.

His eyes, she remembered, had stayed the same perfect glacial meltwater blue. His hot blue eyes had been following her, popping up in her mind all day. Hungry blue eyes. Following her while she looked at his books, watching her as she moved. His eyes had followed her to the Market, an icy burn on her skin.

Marianne stifled a yawn. The pink haze glittered at her, the tiny movements soothing. Her eyelids felt heavier now, as if they had been weighted down. There had been some reason she was supposed to stay awake. The idea was a vague buzz in her mind, one she couldn’t quite focus on. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to rest her eyes for a few minutes. She closed her eyes and sighed; the pink cloud enveloped her and lulling her to sleep.


	12. This little Boggy went to Market

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, the town Bog and Marianne live in is called Normal. I only mentioned this once before, I think.  
> Enjoy!

Bog left the house with a promise from Dawn, she would put the book in Marianne’s room. Bog’s long legs ate up the sidewalk, but he made an effort to look normal. There were still a few people out, braving the chill night air. As he ran the only book store on this side of town, he knew several faces from their custom at his shop. They were his neighbours as well. He waved at their greetings, but did not stop to talk.

His first stop was his house. He barely closed the door behind him before bounding up the stairs to his study, calling to Stuff. As he retrieved a few small items from his desk drawer and his fountain pen, he spoke with the brownie woman. He left at once, sure she understood. Marianne could be anywhere in the Market by now.

Though Bog had never been there himself, several of the Fae he knew, including Thang, often frequented the Market to procure what they needed. In Thang’s case, it was boxes of Goblin rock cakes. His employee had a weakness for the lumpy grey confection, which could only be bought in the Market. Bog had never seen the appeal. Still, Thang’s twice-monthly trip had brought back enough stories to give him a good idea what to expect once he entered the place.

Bog was glad of the cold night air, which kept most people inside. It was late in the evening, but still early enough for someone to see a very tall man running faster than a human could. Bog wanted to use the look-away spell he had tucked in his pocket but held back. He might need it later. Instead he kept to dark streets, cutting through parks and alleys. He took several short cuts, zig-zagging through the town until he reached the outskirts where the Market was located.

As he ran he thought. Bog had never properly understood why, but when many Fae congregated together, space and time would stretch and flex. Mortals still told stories of men who would enter Underhill for what they thought was a night only to emerge a hundred years later. So perhaps the effects in the Market were an echo of Underhill’s magic, since there were no rafts on this continent. Now Fae would now gather in these abandoned places to try and reclaim a piece of the old magic. In this case, causing what was a mid-size mall on the outside to resemble a bloated orange labyrinth on the inside.

The mall had been built when Normal had an economic boom in the seventies and had been abandoned over a decade ago. It was a tall beige box, the plaster chipping off in large chunks to reveal weathered concrete, giving it a mottled, diseased look. Large areas of the ground floor were boarded up with cheap plywood. Graffiti grew on the walls from the ground, like lichen growing on rock. It only took Bog a moment to find the side door Thang had described. It was hard to miss. A huge kraken sprawled across one wall, devouring a ship. Its eye was the knob, painted black.

Inside was pumpkin coloured chaos. A traffic of beings walked by him, Bright Folk going about their business. Wooden stalls lined the causeway, flowing into what used to be store fronts. The noise was a wall of voices calling their wares, offering fame and fortune. He could smell cooking meat, sweet lavender and sewer. A black-eyed woman with pointed teeth stood behind a wooden counter to his left, hawking her fresh fish, adding to the aroma. It very much reminded Bog of the farmer’s market in downtown Normal. He found the comparison a little disturbing, entering the flow of traffic.

While he walked, he picked a small silver acorn from his pocket and popped it in his mouth. He thought of Marianne: her fiery eyes, her calloused hands, her smile. He thought of her snorting laugh, her arching brow and her sarcastic wit. Bog felt the acorn move in his mouth, gently tapping against his teeth. He plucked it from his mouth and dropped it.

He followed the small silver acorn as it bounced and rolled between feet, leading him deeper into the Market. The crowd had thinned as he left the main entrance, allowing him to see the silver flash of the acorn more easily. It guided him through narrow halls, twisting and turning. Though Bog had no idea where it was leading him, he walked with purpose. He knew he was being watched, his nerves prickling even under the discomfort of the _geas_.

Bog had entered the part of the Market he’d been worried about. Here the stalls were blank boarded up faces, their doors shut. Some had painted symbols beside their doors, many did not. As Bog passed two angel-faced women with hollow backs, he stepped around the pool of black hair which fell like a waterfall from their heads. The acorn lead him down another hall.

He’d reached a dead end, empty, save for three slim figures standing around a door. Bog watched as the acorn rolled until it bounced up and off door. Undeterred, it bounced off the door again. And again. The three figures noticed Bog’s approach, if not the acorn’s.

One pushed off of the wall where he’d been leaning and strode towards him. His shaggy blonde hair poked over his black mask, grey eyes assessing Bog as he approached. He sported a nasty looking bruise across the left side of his jaw. His right arm was wrapped in a fresh bandage, a line of bright red soaking through.

“There’s nothing down here for you,” the blonde said, “go away.”

The two other figures were still leaning against the wall, their pose relaxed and eyes wary. Almost identical to the man before him, they also wore masks and the signs of a recent fight. A suspicion grew in Bog’s mind, souring his stomach. Marianne was behind the door to what looked like a utility closet and these three bastards were in the way. What had they done to her?

“Ahm lookin’ fer a friend of mine,” Bog said, gripping his pen in his pocket, unscrewing its cap.

“Brown haired lass, mouthy.” He gestured with his free hand. “About yay tall.”

The blonde was shaking his head, but Bog had seen him flinch at ‘mouthy’.

“Never seen her.” He said.

Bog took another step forward.

“Look,” the blonde continued, “I haven’t seen your friend. Go away. I’m not going to tell you again.” The two other figures had pushed off the wall and were walking towards their companion. He guessed the conversation had gone on too long. Anticipation burned in Bog’s veins. He hadn’t come looking for a fight, but he had come prepared for one.

“Sure,” Bog said, pulling the uncapped pen from his pocket, “ah just need to look behind tha’ door there.” The blonde shook his head again, a long silver dagger glittering in his hand.

“You should have walked away.” The man said. Bog flicked his pen, splattering blue ink across the man’s face and neck. He flinched, startled. Bog twirled the pen in his fingers, then he wasn’t holding a pen but his staff. The ironwood was as tall as he, carved with trailing vines. Its ornamental cap boasted delicate filigree holding a large chunk of polished amber in its center. At the tip, a long blade , turning his staff into a kind of spear. He twirled his staff in front of him, causing the other man to back up half a step. Bog hadn’t been looking for a fight, but now he’d found one he was going to enjoy it.

The fight had been less than satisfying. They had been injured and tired, even three against one, Bog had taken them down quickly. He left the three unconscious bodies piled together in the corner of the dead end. He didn’t like leaving them out, but there was nowhere more subtle to put them. He had already unmasked them, though they weren’t familiar, he memorized their faces. Two of the men sported black eyes, obscuring their features slightly. All had bandaged knife cuts. He stripped their weapons, boots and belts, cutting strips from their shirts to tie and gag them.

When he tried to open the door he found it was unlocked. The light from the hall spilled into the small room. He was prepared to find Marianne inside but it was still a shock to the system to see her prone form. White ropes tied around her legs and torso, reminding Bog of a spider's offering.

He was not, however, prepared for the burnt sugar smell still lingering in the air. It entered his nostrils, opening the Pandora’s box of his memories. Suddenly he was a wet-winged midge, barely out of adolescence and deeply infatuated. He could smell the moors, hear the terrified scream of his love. The memory was so strong he swayed where he stood, the smell searing his nose and the back of his throat. His chest ached over his heart. Bog blinked hard, shaking his head to rattle the memory free and bring him back to reality.

He knelt beside Marianne, holding one hand under her nose. She still breathed. He released the breath he’d hadn't realized he'd been holding. With the silver dagger he’d stripped from one of his opponents, he cut away her gag and the ropes binding her. He was careful not to cut her skin. She had collected a bruises already and Bog had a feeling she would have more from where the ropes bound her. The ropes had been so tight their imprint was still pressed into her flesh. Marianne had worn a leather bracer over where Bog remembered she’d been bandaged. When he checked under the bracer, there was fresh blood seeping through.

Bog’s heart hammered in his chest. Marianne still hadn’t awoken. He checked her over for broken bones and found none, but there was a nasty lump on the back of her head. He was torn between trying to wake her and wanting to get away from the Market before any more trouble found them. A voice inside him cried to pummel the three men in the hall into oblivion. He wished he had beaten them bloody, now he didn’t have time.

Gently, he lifted Marianne into his arms and carried her out of the small room. Bog took a moment, setting Marianne down in the hall and dragging the three men into the room. He used their boots to wedge the door shut from the outside. Bog stripped his coat, wrapping Marianne in it. She still wore only a t-shirt and jeans, not enough protection from the cold night.

That done, he picked up Marianne again. His arms went under her knees and around her back, her head lolled against his shoulder. He needed to find an exit.

 


	13. This little Boggy went home

Marianne drifted on a bouncing pink cloud. Bounce, bounce. A cool breeze kissed her cheeks and she smiled, opening her eyes. She wanted to see the clouds pass her by. Instead she looked up into Bog’s face.

  
He’s not handsome, she thought, trying to peer through his glamour. Not handsome, but very interesting. He had an interesting voice too, though he wasn’t talking at the moment. She wondered if she asked him nicely if he’d read aloud to her.

  
She was aware on some level that he was carrying her through a park. The trees looked familiar, but it was hard for her to focus on them. Her thoughts were slippery, sliding around her brain. She was wrapped up and Bog was carrying her. Why was he carrying her?

  
She focused on Bog’s face, a much easier target than the trees. She almost giggled. Easy on the eyes didn’t exactly suit him. His face was grim, his mouth a flat, determined line. The night had stripped the colour from the world, rendering Bog in shades of grey. She could almost picture his true face, sitting under the human façade. Marianne reached up to touch Bog’s cheek to see if she felt thorny skin or manly bristles. She stroked a finger along one of the deep creases which bracketed his mouth and felt bristle. Disappointing. Bog stumbled, starting at her touch. He looked down into her face, his pale eyes wide.

  
“Marianne.” She watched his lips form her name, felt the sound rumble through his chest. His eyes bore into her, stripping away her responsibilities, her fears to stare into the core of her being. Such power in his eyes, she thought.

  
“Bog.” She wasn’t sure if she whispered or shouted it. She lifted her head, aiming her mouth at his. Bog jerked his head back, flushing red.

  
“Stop tha’.” He cleared his throat, “Do ye remember wha’ happened?”

  
Marianne smiled at him.

  
“Yes. I went to Market,” she said, “only I’m not a little pig.” She snorted for effect and giggled at her joke. Bog was frowning at her, worry in his eyes.

  
“Why?” The word tore from Bog’s chest. Marianne stroked his cheek. She didn’t want him to worry, life was too sweet and fun.

  
“Their offers should not charm us, their evil gifts would harm us.” It was the only reply she could give.

  
“Why did you go to the Market?” He asked again, softly. He looked forward now, light from a streetlamp throwing his face into sharp shadows.

“Down the glen tramp little men,” She said, her voice sing-song, “one hauls a basket, one bears a plate, one lugs a golden dish of many pounds weight.”

  
Bog’s arms tightened around her briefly, but he didn’t respond. Marianne watched as buildings flicked past, shadows cast by streetlights raced by.

  
“Do you know the story of the six swan princes?” she asked, raising her right hand, the backs of her fingers stroking the skin along his throat. She had something clenched in her left hand and didn’t want to let go. Marianne watched Bog’s throat bob as he swallowed hard.

  
“No,” he replied, his voice gruff, “ah cannae say I do.”

  
He looked down at her.

  
“An’ stop tha’.”

  
Marianne lowered her hand and huffed. He wasn’t being any fun. The rhythmic step of his run was soothing, like being rocked. Marianne remembered falling asleep in tree boughs, the wind rocking her gently back and forth. She was growing tired again.

  
“Can ye no’ tell me why you went?” he persisted, “Was it th’ goblin fruit? Dawn told me.” He said in response to her querulous look.

  
“She sucked and sucked and sucked the more, fruits which that unknown orchard bore; she sucked until her lips were sore.” She responded sadly, sleepily. A thought tried to rise to the surface of her mind. There was something important she wanted to ask him.

  
“Will you read to me?” She asked, her fingers still against his throat. He responded, she felt the rumble, but consciousness slid away and she was dropped into a pink abyss.

  
*~*~*

  
Bog’s return journey took him twice as long as his trip to the Market. Several hours had passed outside the Market while he’d spent no more than an hour inside. The sky had the deep indigo hue of early morning, it would be no more than a few hours until sunrise. Despite the early hour, the front door of the Fairfield residence flew open upon his approach. Dawn came running towards them, Sunny stood in the open doorway, his hair mussed and dark circles under his eyes.

  
“Marianne!” Dawn cried, gripping her sister’s hand.

  
“Bring her inside,” Sunny urged. Dawn nodded and ran back up the sidewalk, Bog following behind. She led him past Sunny and into the corner bedroom.

  
Bog knew it was Marianne’s room as soon as she opened the door. Bookshelves had been crafted from short, rough planks of wood and took up one wall, each shelf overflowing with books. Clothing was scattered across the floor and piled in a corner, next to a large upright wardrobe. The room had two large windows, one open, letting in the breeze. A toolbox at the base of the bed spilled chisels, rasps and other tools onto the floor. Her walls were bare.

  
Bog laid Marianne gently on her bed, a plain mattress on a sturdy wooden frame. Dawn hadn’t let go of her sister’s hand. As soon as he set her down, Marianne’s eyes opened. She smiled at Bog and Dawn. Bog felt his heart contract again. It had been a sweet kind of torture carrying her back to the house. She had been so soft and vulnerable. He knew once she recovered, she would probably hate him for seeing her in such a state. He despised why they came to be, but Bog knew he would remember her feather light touches and her sweet smiles for a long time.

  
“Don’t go,” She said, looking into his eyes, “stay.”

  
Protests rose into Bog’s mind. He needed to sleep soon and he still had to open his store today. Thang definitely couldn’t handle the day alone and Fridays were busy for him. He couldn’t get more involved, his presence in the Market had definitely been noticed and it may cause trouble for those under his protection. He opened his mouth to voice his goodbye but couldn’t form the words. He looked pleadingly at Dawn, but she was examining Marianne’s various wounds, her hand still firmly holding her sisters’.  
Marianne’s eyes slid to her sister, following Bog’s gaze.

  
“Hey Dawnie.” Marianne’s words slurred together. She’d been slurring earlier during their cryptic and short conversation, but not as badly. “What’cha doing?”

  
“Trying to look after my lunatic sister!” Dawn snapped, her blue eyes flashing, “Honestly Marianne, you drive me crazy!”

  
Bog had watched as Dawn discovered the bump on Marianne’s head, her freshly bleeding arm and her collection of bruises. Her sweet face had grown dark with worry over her sister’s injuries, her blue eyes flashing.

  
Marianne’s brow creased and the corners of her mouth turned down.

  
“Hey, wha’…” She trailed off, confused. Dawn huffed and kissed her sisters’ forehead.

  
“I’m going to go get the first aid kit.” Dawn gave Marianne’s hand a squeeze and bounced off the bed, “I’m sure Boggy can make sure you don’t fall out of bed.” She continued, giving Bog a significant look. He was too tired to correct her so he simply nodded. Marianne had turned to look up at him. She held out her free hand and he took it without thinking. Resigned, he sat cross-legged on the floor. He was tall enough even sitting that Marianne still needed to look up to see his face, but now she could do so without raising her head.

  
“You know, there were six swan princes and a princess, in the story.” Marianne said, looking at him earnestly, “and for most of the story, she can’t speak.”

  
Bog nodded, not sure what to say. Marianne seemed to be speaking in riddles and Bog hated riddles. It was ironic, a Fae hating riddles, but there it was. He had never been clever enough to figure them out, always losing at the riddle contests many Fae preferred. Eventually he stopped being asked to join, which had worked for him. Luckily Dawn returned quickly, bearing a squareish red bag in her hands.

  
Marianne continued to speak as Dawn tended to her. With brisk, efficient movements she cleaned Marianne’s cuts. Bog got the impression she’d done this routine a few times as Dawn spread antiseptic, applied butterfly bandages and wound gauze around the long cut on Marianne’s arm. She pressed a washcloth he hadn’t noticed to the knot on Marianne’s head.

  
“There’s an evil stepmother because there’s always an evil stepmother,” Marianne said, meekly submitting to her sister’s ministrations, “and she turns the seven-six? No, six. Six princes, she turns them into swans and the princess has to weave them shirts from nettles and she can’t talk.”

  
Dawn had finished and curled beside her sister, stroking Marianne’s hair out of her face. Sunny brought Bog a couch cushion to sit on and laid a blanket over Dawn and Marianne. He settled on a cushion of his own next to the open doorway. He sat cross-legged as well against the far wall, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.  
Marianne was still determinedly telling her tale, though her words slurred so badly at times it took Bog a few seconds to detangle what she was saying.

  
“She was jealous, the evil stepmother, so she cursed all the boys to be swans. Somehow, because they never explain this part, their sister knows she must weave shirts from nettles and not speak a word the whole time. So she starts shredding her hands on nettles to save her brothers when a king falls in love with her, because who doesn’t love a silent woman, right?”

  
This drew a soft snort of amusement from Sunny. Bog didn’t want to speak for fear of breaking the spell Marianne’s voice was casting over him.

  
“The princess marries the king and has a son, but she still can’t speak because she’s not done. Then her evil stepmother steals her kid and blames her, except she can’t defend herself because she can’t talk still. She does eventually save them of course, except the youngest brother ends up with a wing because of some bad stitching.” She yawned. “Then she explains everything and the wicked stepmother dies.”

Marianne’s eyes were blurry with sleep, but there was something urgent in them.

  
“She couldn’t speak that whole time, the princess, even to defend herself.” Marianne blinked slowly. Once. Twice. Her eyes drifted shut. Bog stared as her face relaxed into sleep, her lips moving in and out with each breath. Sunny let out a quiet snore.

  
“What happened?” Dawn whispered. Bog looked over Marianne’s head into her worried blue eyes.

  
“I don’ know. I found her…” He trailed off, not sure how much of the tale to tell Dawn. “She was… like this when ah found her. She’s been drugged with somethin’ called Lover’s Blush.”

  
“Lover’s Blush?” She inquired softly, “What’s that?” Bog felt shame the knowledge brought him fill his chest.

  
“It’s a love potion,” he said, his voice soft, “an’ it renders th’ person under it helpless. It numbs pain and gives ‘em a feeling of euphoria.”  
Dawn had squeaked at the mention of a love potion. Bog felt shame blossom inside him, the geas pushed into him from the outside, trapping him between layers of pain, making him feel like a hollow shell.

  
“That’s awful.” She whispered and wrapped an arm around Marianne’s waist, hugging her sister close.

  
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Dawn asked over Marianne’s head. Bog leaned his head back against the wall, his hand still wrapped around Marianne’s.

  
“Aye.” He said.

  
Bog watched the sky through Marianne’s window as it lightened from inky indigo to pale azure, then lavender and finally a golden peach glow of dawn. How had he gotten mixed up with these women, he wondered, watching over them as they slept the early morning away. He knew he should walk away now, leave before they woke and go about his life as he had before. No complicated women, no trouble, only peaceful quiet, solitude and books.

  
Yet he couldn’t seem to will his legs to unfold and carry him up, couldn’t convince his fingers to let go of Marianne’s hand. It was too late, he realized as the sun finally kissed the sky. He was in too deep. First Dawn had sucked him in with her gentle friendship, her smiling conversation and her affectionate teasing. Then Marianne had blasted the flesh from his bones and he had formed anew. He didn’t want to think about what she meant to him now.

  
When you know, you know, Griselda had often told him. It’s the blessing and curse of our kind. He hadn’t believed her until he watched the first golden rays of dawn touch Marianne’s face. Then he knew.


End file.
